Frankly, that phrase is a bit too direct and is often used by someone who is exhausted by something.
I’m not, but when I say that I’ve watched the runners and runners pretty much every day since Halloween won the King George VI Chase in 1954, I think we can see that I’ve spent quite a bit of my time racing.
Sometimes events can reinforce a decision you have already made. I’m tired of betting and haven’t had any trouble with it for a while; let’s say a few years instead of a few months. I could have crossed the room to turn on the King George the other day, but continued reading Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. I’d really like to know why Sydney Carton, a man after my own heart, ends up feeling satisfied – or at least satisfied – with herself. Furthermore, I don’t want to shake off this mortal coil with such a poor track record when it comes to familiarity with Dickens’ work.
Make sure you don’t get the wrong impression. I love racing, it’s been good for me and when Brighton and Goodwood come around again I’ll be up early to tackle tricky sprints and better class distance races. But if betting no longer interests me, I don’t need to know what is being done or even where the sport is taking place, especially early in the week.
What caused this late, late development? Well, that’s an easy one. When the Weekend Card closed, at the age of 77 I suddenly had no writing points left and hardly anyone would knock on my door. As loyal readers will know, my pieces invariably went far beyond the boundaries of racing. On a limb and a tad melancholy they may have been, but they were mine, they won me the occasional award and I had no intention of replacing them with selections that, over the years, may have been occasionally rewarding but played an important role in making this a life not without financial hardship and regret. I could always handle that. Every time someone tells me they’ve lived a life without regrets, I smile and move on without comment.
It may seem a long way from these musings to the BBC’s beautifully filmed series Gone Fishing, in which Paul Whitehouse and Bob Mortimer fish the rivers in Britain and Ireland that we’ve heard of, but perhaps never visited.
There are many points I could make about the couple’s relationship. A man of many voices, Whitehouse is essentially the teacher, sometimes a little frustrated and giving the impression that he would be just as happy all day on his own, with only his past for company. Mortimer is a happier soul, his attitude often consistent with his television persona and a recent dip in authorship.
The BBC naturally arranges everything for them, including overnight stays in hotels, old buildings and even charming cottages in remote areas. These places are pleasantly deserted, perhaps in stark contrast to ‘normal’ days when the cameras are absent. Mortimer generally cooks and the conversation covers many topics, including major surgeries and sometimes even mortality.
They have reached that age, your age possibly and mine without a doubt.
But what attracts me most is the overnight stay, because I immediately try to find out how close the chosen hotel, house or cottage is to a racecourse. York is easy enough because the Fairfax Arms, with its stream, its church with its honesty box for locally produced jams and its model railway alongside the pub, is only 20 miles from the Dante, the Ebor and, if you’re so inclined, the Minster.
Looking at Whitehouse and Mortimer in Yorkshire I wondered how long the journey further north to Northumberland, or more specifically Hexham, would take and where I could find the most suitable guest house, not a million miles from the racecourse, but still in the sticks, so to speak. I’ve never been to Hexham and for the son of a miner from Blyth it’s a bit of a pain.
When Gone Fishing ended, I turned on the radio, where the next piece of classical music was the fourth movement of Grieg’s celebrated Peer Gynt Suite. This happens to be Solveig’s Song, a sad but beautiful lament and also the source of one of my fondest racing memories.
Solveig’s Song was only a moderate mare, but everything about her seemed good to me in 2018 on Carnaby Day in Brighton, where she was happiest and had already won twice. That day she came to the middle and charged through the horses to win by three lengths from a horse called Hidden Stash. She was backed from 14/1 to 10/1 and everyone in the box was happy. She is still going strong at 14, probably with the underrated Steve Woodman, and it is always extremely satisfying when well-known horses win. Given Grieg’s background, it was unlikely that she would visit anyone other than Norse Dancer.
The fact is that when it comes to racing, my memory is full and I’m happy with it. If I give three examples – let’s say Doug Marks’ Bunto coming fourth at a Wokingham, Geoff Lewis and his black gloves on Crazy Horse at Folkestone and Albert Finney’s Brother Ray passing the entire field to take a gamble at Salisbury, there could easily be 300 more. It’s just that these days I don’t need a cash investment to add to the shine that’s already there.
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